Parade
by Flora Bora
Summary: She had cried, the first few times. She had sat on the floor and wept and thought many times the agony would kill her." -- Tracy, Peter, Nathan. Future Fic. Au.


Parade

Pressing her knees to her chest and trying to will the nausea gone, with her eyes closed and her fingers still shaking, she couldn't remember how many times now she had sat on that very same spot, with her back to the wall as the body in front of her slowly thawed and began to take its original form.

She had cried, the first few times. She had sat on the floor and wept and thought many times the agony would kill her. She had felt helpless, alone, and though those two feelings still remained with her, she had somehow learned to crush them. Or rather ignore them. She had okay days. Sometimes she had good days. Until they came. And then everything would come crumbling down.

In the beginning she thought it would get easier with time. But there was nothing easy about killing a man. Not any man. But _him_. Over and over again in an endless cycle. Because even though they weren't, somehow they were. They were him. They looked like him. They talked like him. Some of them even smelled like him. And each time it took every bit of strength left in her not to believe them. Because sometimes hope can be a tricky thing. It makes you long for something, _see_ something, that isn't there. And that longing, that hope, had nearly killed her several times.

Yet still, every time another one came, for just a second, one second, she hoped, and she longed that this time, this _one_ time, oh, God, please God, let this really be him. Just this one time. _Please_.

But they were not, and they would not be. They were tricks, illusions, spies. Mind readers. Mind controllers. Hell, one time she even caught an invisible woman hiding in her bedroom. All of them, returning over and over again, in his body. In his shape. In his image. Each one begging her, each one telling her, each one promising this time, this one time, they were telling the truth. Each one looking exactly like him, sounding like him, _acting_ like him. Maybe that was the reason why it never got any easier. They never reverted to their original form before she struck, and so each time she had to stand there with her hand against _his_ chest, and watch that horrified look on _his_ face as he turned to ice and ceased to be.

Killing a man. It never got any easier. But killing _him_... it was an agony. A never-ending nightmare.

The women were worse. They knew how to get under her skin and say the things they knew she wanted to hear. The men were sloppy, careless, but the women knew just where to touch her, just where to kiss her, and she could do nothing but stand there and pretend and wait for the perfect moment to strike.

The women were good. _Really_ good. But it was in the eyes. No matter how hard they tried, somehow, they couldn't get the eyes right. Not the shape, not the color, but something in them. Something _in_ him. They were good. Really good. But they weren't perfect, and she knew him in a way they would never get to know him. That was her advantage.

The front door opened. No use in locking doors anymore. Regular people would not find her up here, and the rest, well, they would find their way in no matter what.

"You're too late," she said as she pushed herself off the floor. She passed him on her way into the kitchen and didn't notice the look of pure shock on his face as he looked at the body. Sometimes she wondered why this still surprised him. There was something oddly comforting, however, about his relentless empathy. After all the death they'd seen, everything they'd gone through, he still knew how to feel. Sometimes she envied that about him, but self-preservation was a strong entity, and she knew that if she let her guard down there was a strong chance she could never put herself back together again.

Peter stood over the body and cocked his head to the side. They were getting good at this, for everything about the image in front of him, every little line and wrinkle and hair, even the clothes, everything screamed Nathan Petrelli.

"Another shape shifter?"

Tracy didn't reply, but rather picked up a glass from her cupboard and poured some scotch in. The smell still reminded her of their first night together. She rarely drank it anymore. It was a habit she had seen many of them fall prey to. But the smell reminded her of everything she, him, everyone on their side was still fighting for.

"I'll get rid of the body," Peter said calmly. She wondered how many bodies he'd had to bury. Still buried. Sometimes she wondered what the final death toll was. Maybe it was best not to know. Ignorance. They say it's a bliss.

He stood there in the kitchen with her, joining in the silence. Tracy took a deep breath, standing against the counter and looking at the sink. This had become a loathed ritual between them. Sometimes she didn't have to call. Sometimes he just knew, and would show up at the right moment. She never really asked, generally assumed it had something to do with whoever he'd been in contact with last. Parkman, Molly, or any of the precogs. But usually she called. There were few words that needed to be said. He always just knew.

They had come to rely on each other at times almost desperately, but a part of her, especially now, seeing him in her kitchen, with the body but a few feet away, a part of her wished he would disappear from her life forever. She had come to love him like a brother, but every time she saw him she couldn't help seeing _him_ as well. And then all the memories would come rushing into her like wild fire. At times it was almost too much to bear.

She wanted to forget, and yet it was the memories that gave her strength to keep fighting.

"Are you okay?"

She half-smiled. It was like a scripted scene. Over and over again. When would it end? _How_ would it end?

She put the glass of scotch away and turned around. She looked into his eyes, and was struck by how much older he looked compared to the last time she saw him. The last year had taken an immeasurable toll on them. Running from the government, the experiments, the injections, the explosion, hiding in all corners of the globe like animals, trying to keep alive, stay safe... And yet to this day their numbers continued to decrease daily. But they continued to fight. To run. To hide.

Hope is a tricky thing. It keeps you afloat, but just barely. It gives you enough strength to reach the surface, but once there you are face to face with that vastness, not knowing where to turn. Who to rely on. Hope doesn't mean you get to live. It might just mean you get to die slower. They had come to realize that too quickly.

"They're never gonna stop."

Peter looked down. She took a deep breath, and when he looked up he noticed the glistening shimmer in her eyes. He never saw her cry. Not when they had her locked up, not when they nearly killed her with their experiments, not even when they scraped and stole every little bit from inside of her and destroyed it to shreds in the name of science. With dry eyes she had seen Building 26 burn to the ground with many of them still inside, she had seen, along with him, the blade as it glided cold against Nathan's neck, had pressed her hand against it and had it not been for Claire...

She watched as everything burned down and if she so much as flinched, he did not see it. She had an amazing ability to stay grounded, stay strong, and he had come to rely on her strength as much as she relied on his abilities. They had come together with one goal, one mission, each offering the other what they could not give to their selves, and if she crumbled now, if she gave up... Peter knew that would be the beginning of the end.

"I just need to see him," she whispered desperately, knowing they could hear them. This time she didn't care.

"You can't," Peter said. "_I_ can't."

She looked away, and he saw that signature hardheartedness return to her face. It was a bittersweet comfort.

"It's for his safety."

"His safety," she laughed bitterly. "What makes you think...?" but she stopped there. Thinking it was one thing, but saying it out loud... she wouldn't let the words leave her. Couldn't.

Peter frowned. "If they're still looking for him, that means he's still alive."

"For how long?"

And that was the torture. That was the conundrum. For as long as they kept sending shape shifters and spies she knew that only meant one thing: Nathan was still alive. They hadn't gotten to him yet. And that was a comfort. But it also meant she had to endure the endless parade of monsters sneaking into her house, looking for traces of him, tapping into her phone lines, turning her home upside down.

And the shape shifters.

She looked at the body in her living room. The ice was melting off and the body was returning to its original form. It was another woman.

"I don't know," Peter said. "I don't know how long I just... I need you on this, okay? It's just you and me, nobody else."

She looked at him and in his desperate tone she once more realized how much Peter loved his brother. In his tired eyes she saw how much he had lost, too. First the crushing realization that hit him when this all started, that terrifying knowledge that he would have to kill his own brother. In an instant he had gone from that sweet wide-eyed kid to a man torn in half by love and hate for his own kin.

While she struggled to remain alive under the heat lamps and the subsequent experiments Peter struggled with that agonizing decision. He grew stronger, jaded, bitter, and when the plan finally began to take shape, when the zero hour finally arrived, out of left field -- and they hated themselves not for not seeing it from the beginning -- a curve ball. And then it wasn't about killing his brother anymore, but killing his own father. Watching him die again, this time by his hand, as she held Nathan's suddenly soulless body in her arms, too weak from the experiments and too shocked to understand what she was seeing...

Jesus, it was still hard to believe. Had she not been there to see it she didn't know if she'd be able to. She still couldn't comprehend it. And try as they might to unveil the truth, very few actually believed them. It was the reason why they were trying to find Nathan, kill him for all the deaths they thought he was responsible for.

It would never end. How could it? The best they could do was keep one step ahead of them, make sure they couldn't get to Molly and hope... Hope, again.

"I don't know if I can," she sighed.

"We have to," Peter said. "He needs us, Tracy."

She looked at him, and once again wished he could be a realist if only for one second. "Peter this is not going to end until they kill him. Or us."

He seemed to get it, but that fierce determination would not waver. "I just need a little more time."

She nodded, and sighed inaudibly. The body continued to defrost. She told herself that not everything was lost. Not yet. How ridiculous, to wish this nightmare upon herself in exchange for the knowledge that he was still alive. Ridiculous.

"How much?"

"As long as it takes," Peter said. "He's my brother. I love him. I'm not gonna let them kill him."

Sometimes she felt like they were swimming against the current. Just the two of them, against an army of government officials, and regular civilians turned into monsters, and even some of their own kind, the ones who lost everything and themselves in the facility, all of them ready to spill Nathan's blood without giving it a second thought.

And who was on their side? They were all too involved in their losses to care. The ones who survived, anyway. Parkman spent most of his time drinking the memories of Daphne away, Mohinder returned home to a life of anonymity (or last she heard, for all she knew he could be dead), the Company washed their hands free of everything and disintegrated without leaving so much as a trace behind.

That left him and her against hundreds. Possibly thousands. Peter was fueled by the unwavering belief that he could save his brother. She had never been that big of an idealist.

"I know you love him, too."

She felt the words stab at her heart. There were times when she forgot. Or maybe chose not to remember. Times when she woke up in her empty bed and could not recall a time when he had been there next to her, for in reality after Arthur's death they'd spent but a few weeks running before they had to part. He'd tried to communicate with her in the beginning, but then then the mind readers and shape shifters began to show up, and they knew then they would have to cut off all communication. "Just for a little bit," they'd promised her. That was nine months ago.

But then all she needed was a little reminder, seeing a bottle of scotch, or finding one of his shirts in the back of her closet, and then those feelings came rushing into her again. And then she remembered what she was fighting for. Normalcy. Just a regular life. Just being able to wake up in the morning and not have to worry about her life, about Nathan's life. Just going one day without wondering where he was, if he was still alive, if they'd gotten to him yet. One day without the memories and the nightmares and the loneliness.

If only Hiro was still alive. What they wouldn't give to go back and change it all.

"You're the only one who can help me."

Tracy looked down, nodding at the floor. A scripted scene. A play they'd had to perform over and over again. He grabbed her arm, and she found herself leaning into his embrace. This was all they had left. Just an isolated cabin in the middle of nowhere and each other, and the love they both felt for a running man who was just as good as dead.

She pulled back and smiled. It always seemed to end this way. "Take care of yourself."

"You too," Peter replied. There was much to say, but very few words could convey the intensity of it all, and so without saying another word he picked up the dead body and walked out the door. She never did ask what he did with them. She assumed he buried them somewhere far from here. It didn't matter.

They didn't matter.

Because tomorrow they would send another one. If not tomorrow, then the day after. Or in another month. It didn't matter when. Just that they would. And she would sit there and wait for them.

As she always did.

She closed the door behind her and leaned into it. Her head was throbbing and her eyes felt heavy. It'd been a while since she got a full night of sleep and it would be a while before she could again. Before they could again. Those fated to live long lives, anyway. Those who fell before their time... she often wondered if they were the lucky ones.

For the first time in a while, she locked her door and wondered if that would make a difference. Probably not. Whether she locked the door or left it open or removed it altogether. They would find their way in, wearing his clothes, using his voice, his skin, his smell, his hair...

It was a nightmare. Each time she saw them, him, enter her house. It was a nightmare. But each time she woke up to the realization that Nathan was still alive. And that hope, the foolish longing, the ridiculous notion that someday she might see him again, alive if possible... it was enough to keep her fighting.

For the time being.


End file.
